When Devils Sing(46)

“What?” Isaiah leaned across the table, drawing close. “Neera, I thought—I thought he…” He wasn’t willing to say it aloud.

Neera met his gaze. “You know, what if he didn’t? What if it wasn’t suicide after all? I’ve always thought it, but didn’t have any proof. Just another goddamn feeling. And I’m having that same feeling right now, after finding the key chain and this photo. What if Wiley didn’t just mean dead, but murdered?”

“Maybe the same thing happened to Dawson,” Isaiah said, reconsidering everything he’d learned so far. “I can do some digging—property records, public debt, that kind of thing. See if I can find out who your grandfather owes the money to, who this boss of Wiley’s is. Maybe then it’ll make all this a little clearer.”

“Thank you, Isaiah,” Neera said solemnly. “But whatever happens, I’ll figure something out, okay? This isn’t your responsibility.”

“All right,” Isaiah agreed, except he didn’t mean it one bit. Because this was one side of Neera he recognized: stubbornly independent. Terrified of asking for help. He owed it to them both to try.

When the two said their goodbyes, they hugged, but it wasn’t the awkward, tense embrace from a few days before.

It felt genuine and certain.



* * *



ONCE NEERA’S CAR had pulled out of the Waffle House parking lot, Isaiah went to the counter to pay for their meal. As he hovered at the register, a woman’s yell sounded behind him. A middle-aged white woman was being escorted from the bathroom, cussing and yelling all the while. Her voice was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

The cook, a gruff man covered in tattoos, guided her to the exit as she made a scene, dragging her feet along the tiled floor. He led her out the front door and onto the sidewalk, plopping her firmly on the ground before returning inside.

Their waitress, Jo, rang up Isaiah, shaking her head at the scene.

“What’s that all about?” he asked.

“Just a woman taking no responsibility for herself,” Jo said as she scribbled onto a yellow receipt pad. “Ain’t nothin’ new around here.”

“Did something happen to her?” Isaiah prodded as he folded the change into his wallet.

“Her son died and she’s going around blaming the whole town for it, instead of making right with God.” Jo rolled her eyes. “Everybody in Carrion wanna blame somebody else for their problems instead of lookin’ at themselves.”

Isaiah realized then where he’d previously heard the woman’s voice. The voicemail in Leblanc’s office.

I know about you and my son.

The belligerent woman was Andrea Sumter. Isaiah swallowed hard, trying to keep his cool.

“Thank you for the meal,” Isaiah said by way of goodbye.

All around Isaiah, people glared and turned their noses up at the sight of Andrea outside, bent over on the ground, her face buried between her knees. He fought the urge not to grimace at their harsh lack of sympathy.

The early-morning humidity was stifling as Isaiah considered his options outside the front door of Waffle House. This was his chance to speak to Andrea, to hear her side of the story about Dawson. But she wasn’t what he expected. He wasn’t sure she was in a state to have a conversation about the weather, much less the death of her son.

Isaiah rubbed his temple. He had been trying to track down Andrea for nearly two days without any luck, and here she was, emerging from the woodwork of Waffle House. He supposed it was now or never.

“Ma’am,” Isaiah began, kneeling on the ground. “Are you, by chance, Andrea Sumter?”

“Who’s askin’?” The woman met Isaiah’s gaze, her blue eyes watery and bloodshot. She had the same eyes as Dawson’s from the photographs he’d seen. The same thin nose.

In a quiet voice, Isaiah said, “I’d like to talk to you about your son.”

“There’s nothin’ to talk about.” Andrea’s chin trembled. “My son’s gone.”

“I know, and I’m really sorry about that,” Isaiah said. “But I’d like to talk to you about what happened. What really happened, if you’d be open to it?”

Andrea’s eyes narrowed, studying Isaiah. “You a reporter?”

“No, ma’am,” Isaiah said with his most mollifying smile. “Not yet, at least. I’m studying journalism at SCAD. I read about your son’s drowning and felt his story deserved to be told.” He felt bad, telling another lie to a woman who was drowning in them, but through his various investigations for Secrets of the South, Isaiah had honed his ability to obfuscate. To wrap up the truth in a blanket of dishonesty. It was his protection.

“Oh,” Andrea said, placated. She sniffled, rubbing snot from her nose and onto the back of her pale hand. “I’m really in no shape to talk to anyone,” she relented, grimacing at her vomit-stained scrubs. “But I’m open to talkin’ another time. Later today? After I clean myself up.”

Isaiah nodded. “Yes, ma’am, of course. Here’s my number.” He rattled off one of the many Google Voice numbers he used for interviews. “And my name’s Jordan Harris.” For most things relating to his podcast, he erred on the side of caution, but this felt different. Riskier, somehow. Was it because this was so close to home?